Of Bats and Cats
by ArwenGreenEyes
Summary: When Batman faces the combined wiles of Poison Ivy and Catwoman, will an unlikely hero rise to save the day, or has Gotham seen the end of the Dark Knight?
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first Batman story, so please bear with me if I don't stick strictly to cannon...after all, it's a little more fun to live outside the lines. Please review and tell me what you think!**

**Arwen**

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own Batman. Or Catwoman. Curse you, cruel fate.**

Selina Kyle slid her key into the lock of her apartment and opened the door. She slipped inside and promptly kicked off her high-heeled shoes; her feet ached, and she would need to rest them before her busy night. Her cats twined themselves around her legs as she threw her keys on the counter and put down her briefcase, opening the refrigerator.

"I know, darlings, I know," she said lovingly, one hand stroking the head of a black cat that had leapt up onto the counter. She surveyed the contents of her fridge and finally selected two cans of tuna, a can of salmon and, of course, a pint of milk. After opening the cans of tuna, she set them on the floor. "Play nice and share like Momma's taught you," she instructed the cats as they crowded around the pungent fish. She padded into the living room, carrying her own dinner, and flicked on the television, settling onto the well-worn couch as she scooped the salmon out of the can with two fingers, eyes half-closed in contentment. The eleven o'clock news informed her that two precious bits of topaz, called the Cat's Eyes, had been stolen from the Gotham Fine Arts Institute four nights ago. She smiled. According to the pretty blonde news reporter, an investigation, still under way, had thus far yielded no concrete results.

"However," the reporter continued perkily, standing in front of the looming pillars of the Institute's front entrance, "the front-running suspect at this time is the professional thief known as the Cat-burglar."

Selina gave a yowl of indignation, startling the calico that had settled into her lap. She threw a cat-embroidered pillow at the television set. "_Cat-burglar?" _she repeated in disbelief. The cat scrambled down her legs, preferring the floor to his moody mistress.

The news anchor frowned slightly, as reporters do when they mishear something on their earpieces. "Excuse me," she said, smiling a little into the microphone. "Apparently this thief is being dubbed the Catwoman."

"That's right, you little airhead," Selina spat emphatically. She sighed and licked the last of the salmon from her fingers, washing the fish down with a swallow of milk. "You'd think that after months on the Gotham crime circuit, they'd at least get my name right," she complained to the black cat, who sat looking expectantly at the pint of milk. "Oh, all right." She poured some milk into her empty tuna can and offered it to the black cat, who licked his whiskers appreciatively. Drinking the rest of the milk, she stared at the television darkly.

"In other news," said the anchor, "the career criminal and psychopathic activist known as Poison Ivy has escaped Arkham Asylum. No details on the manner of her escape are available at this time, and citizens are urged to contact police with any information regarding her whereabouts or activities."

"Hmm," purred Selina. "So Red's on the loose. That could be fun." She turned and addressed the black cat. "You know, we got some quality girl time last time she was around…too bad the Bat caught up to her." She made an annoyed face, which then slid into flirtatious and contemplative. "The Bat," she repeated, stroking her cat. "You know, I've got to hand it to the hottie, he's good." Smiling, she collected the empty salmon can and walked into the kitchen. Delicately tossing the cans into the trash can, she turned and looked sharply at the television, pattering across the room to turn up the volume.

"And, despite the burglary we covered earlier this hour, Ruth Ellis, the spokeswoman for the Gotham Institute of Fine Art, says that the Institute's plans to host an exhibit of artist Angelo Marcellus' work remain unchanged. The exhibit will be unveiled tomorrow at an evening gala hosted by none other than the artist himself." The anchor looked down at her notes perfunctorily. "However, on top of the burglary, the Institute has also had to endure demonstrations by some of Gotham's leading environmental groups, protesting Marcellus' extravagant use of rare wood such as teak and mahogany in his sculptures." The camera panned a gallery of gleaming wooden artwork, and Selina's eyes widened as she spied a sculpture depicting a woman with the head of a lioness. "Marcellus' show will focus on images of power throughout history, including the Egyptian and Roman gods."

"Me—ow," breathed Selina, plastering two hands against the screen, gazing lustfully at the image of the carved Egyptian goddess. "Sekhmet, if I'm not mistaken, darlings." Her cats crowded around her feet. "The goddess of war in ancient Egypt." She smiled and licked her lips. "I think it's only fitting that she belong to the most dangerous woman in Gotham, don't you?" she purred breathily, snapping off the television. "All right, precious." She gently disentangled the cats from around her legs. "Momma has to go get ready for work." Her eyes gleamed as she disappeared into her bedroom. "Be good while I'm gone, darlings," she called as she slipped out the window, her whip cracking as she swung to the next rooftop.

xXxXx

Bruce rubbed his chin as he surveyed the information laid out on the supercomputer's large screens.

"A light meal before you start the night's work, sir?" asked Alfred, walking down the stairs of the Batcave with his usual silent style, bearing a silver tray in one hand.

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, eyes still glued to the screens, rapidly clicking through several news articles.

"In light of the fact that you once forgot to eat for two days straight while tracking the Joker, sir, I'd prefer you eat while I am here to observe," Alfred said dryly.

Bruce chuckled and sat back. He _had_ been burning the candle at both ends lately—more than usual, at least. With the most recent burglary at the Fine Art Institute and the escape of Poison Ivy from Arkham, the Batman had definitely been clocking overtime. "You worry too much, Alfred."

"I am beyond the point of worrying, Master Bruce," replied the butler with his usual wit. "At this point, I usually resort to praying."

Bruce chuckled again through a mouthful of Waldorf salad. Then he straightened abruptly. "Sekhmet!"

"Well, sir, I habitually direct my entreaties on your behalf to a different deity, but if you'd like me to put in a word with the Egyptian goddess of war, I think I could manage."

"No, Alfred—look! Sekhmet!" Bruce watched the eleven o'clock news hungrily, hoping for another shot of the wooden statue. The news continued to a clip of protestors, pacing outside the Art Institute with signs depicting trees. His mind worked rapidly, putting it all together.

"I see, sir. Speaking of the Art Institute," said Alfred, "may I remind you that you received an invitation for the opening of the new Marcellus exhibit tomorrow night."

"Black-tie gala?" Bruce asked, typing a few key phrases into the computer's search engine.

"Yes, sir. I've already selected and pressed your tuxedo."

"I wouldn't count on there being any gala at all," the billionaire said, leaning back in his seat as he surveyed the archived news clippings on the screen. "Marcellus uses large amounts of rare woods in his artwork, a source of conflict with many prominent environmental activists. He was even charged with a felony early in his career for violating sanctions on using wood from a specific species of endangered tropical trees." His brows knitted together, Bruce continued, thinking out loud as Alfred listened silently, hands folded behind his back in his typical pose. "Put that together with his carving of Sekhmet, and I'd say we've got two criminal paths crossing."

"Sir?" Alfred arched an eyebrow. "Forgive me if I don't follow your train of thought."

"Poison Ivy is on the loose. She's sure to meddle with a high-profile art exhibit that uses rare woods. Add that to a cat statue…and you've got a high probability of two of the greatest serial criminals in Gotham hitting the Gotham Fine Art Institute…tonight." And with that, he was out of his chair, already pulling on his gauntlets.

"But sir," protested Alfred. "You haven't finished your supper."

"Put it in the fridge for me, Alfred," Bruce said, pulling on his mask. "I'll be back before dawn."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said, gathering up the tray with its barely-touched meal. "Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred?" The Batman paused at the side of the Tumbler, waiting.

"Do be careful, sir," the butler said quietly.

"I will." The Tumbler roared into life and leaped through the dark tunnel toward the streets of Gotham. Alfred stood silently, listening to the echoes of the powerful engine as it bore his charge toward a dangerous night; and then he turned, taking the Waldorf salad upstairs to await Master Bruce's return.


	2. Chapter 2

**All you lurkers, review and tell me what you think...I'm holding the next chapter ransom for, let's say, five reviews. Yes, I'm evil. I know. Enjoy. **

**Arwen**

Catwoman crouched in the shadows of the rooftop, narrowing her green eyes as she surveyed the Institute of Fine Art. She took out her binoculars and clicked up the magnification, examining the goliath columns that held up the front of the structure, probing the shadows for any sign of _him._ "Last week was just a warmup," she murmured, recalling the alarm system in detail in her head, pulling up the format of the lasers, the different ways the system could be tripped—pressure sensors on the floor, and most of the time, a weight sensor on the artwork's pedestal, so that if the object was removed an alert was triggered. But she had already taken care of that—she'd scouted the dumpsters on the other side of the building and come up with a compacted hunk of aluminum that she was almost sure was the right weight to replace the Sekhmet carving.

From the camera shot she'd seen on the news, the Sekhmet carving took pride of place in the main exhibit gallery, which was conveniently located right next to the atrium—hello, skylights. You'd think that Gotham architects would start to catch on, she thought in amusement. Any building with windows on the top was just too tempting, and any building that had already felt the sting of her claws once should learn fast.

"Once fooled, shame on me," she murmured, still scanning with her binoculars. "Twice fooled…" She paused and smiled, scarlet lips stretching to reveal shining white teeth. Crouching down, she swung the black pack down from her back and opened it, hefting the chunk of aluminum, imagining the weight of the beautiful, gleaming carving in her hand instead.

"You know, you should really recycle that."

Catwoman jumped a little and hissed, "You know, you shouldn't sneak up on a girl like that, Red."

Poison Ivy, once known as Dr. Pamela Isley, made her leisurely way across the rooftop. "Sorry, Kitty-cat," she said silkily, twirling a long strand of red hair about her pale fingers. "But I just had to point out that every aluminum can you recycle, you save ninety-five percent of the energy it would take to create a new can out of raw materials."

"How interesting," said Catwoman flatly, scanning again with her binoculars. She switched to infrared. Still nothing, beside the glow of the atrium with its fogged windows.

"Do you know where they get the energy they use to make those horrid cold cans?" Poison Ivy asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Let me guess. Plants?" Catwoman raised one eyebrow, expression clearly bored.

"Close, Kitty. _Dead_ plants." Poison Ivy's red lips pressed into a ferocious scowl. "Just like that idiot who chops down my precious trees to carve them up into _statues_."

"Question?" Catwoman held up a hand. "If you're referring to coal as a fuel source, those plants have been dead for hundreds of years, Red. I mean, if I'm remembering my eighth grade science."

"Do you think I care?" snapped Poison Ivy. "The fact remains that _humans_, who happen to think they're so much better than every other organism on this _planet_, have always plundered the botanical world to suit their whims."

"So why are you here again?" Catwoman asked, shoving the aluminum back into her sack. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Of course not, Kitty-cat," replied Poison Ivy silkily. "But I thought you would have been smart enough to figure that out for yourself."

"Oh, the whole deal with using woods from endangered trees?" purred Catwoman. She prided herself on knowing how to get under anyone's skin…even a super-villainess, and she was rewarded by Ivy flushing in anger. "Well, sure, Red, but you gotta admit, the man's got taste."

"Taste?" hissed Ivy. "He's butchering living things that have just as much a right to life as him! He's wasting lives needlessly, all in the name of _art!_ And stop calling me Red," she added. "It reminds me of Harley."

"Oh, she's still in the slammer, isn't she," cooed Catwoman. "How unfortunate." She stood and unhooked her whip from her belt. "How about I stop calling you Red when you stop calling me Kitty-cat."

"Fine," spat Poison Ivy. As Catwoman uncoiled her whip, clearly readying to leave, she took a step forward, features softening. "Look…Catwoman. Remember the last time we teamed up?"

"Who could forget," said Catwoman devilishly. "That was a wild night…we had the Bat tearing at his pointy little ears." Then she checked herself.

"Batman?" Poison Ivy's look turned to one of pure hatred. "He still fancies himself the master of the night in Gotham?"

Catwoman shrugged eloquently. "I don't really like bats, but let's just say I'd like to see what's _under_ that cape."

"Whether he dresses like a bat or a monkey, I don't care," snarled Ivy, her face contorted in real rage. Catwoman edged away from her—she'd forgotten that the bad-girl botanist was a certified man-hater. Any size, shape or form, no matter if they were hot or not, the luscious Dr. Isley was cold as ice. Catwoman considered it…it would be a pity, she decided, to hate men, when they were such fun toys. Ivy visibly calmed herself.

"It's all right, though," she continued in an oddly smooth voice. "It doesn't matter if the Batman comes tonight."

"Why?" Catwoman asked suspiciously, crouching down at the edge of the rooftop. "It's two against one, sure, but honestly, there's a strength issue involved. I was thinking bang and burn. After I get my Sekhmet, of course."

"Burn?" Ivy eyed the Gotham Institute of Fine Art. "Let's say we burn the main exhibition, but we're not going to hurt the atrium, Pussy."

Catwoman gave a little growl at the pet-name. "You keep calling me ridiculous names, _Red,_ and you're on your own."

"No need to get hissy, darling," Isley replied smoothly. "I want to set the poor plants in the atrium free."

Catwoman rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say. But like _I _said, I get Sekhmet. That's rule number one."

"Fine." Ivy walked to the edge of the roof. Her eyes glittered. "Can I make up rule number two?"

"Knock yourself out," said the feline thief extraordinaire, binoculars up at her eyes again. Still no Bats. She fought down a wave of disappointment. It almost wouldn't be exciting enough without him. Plus she wanted to try out some new moves on those rock-hard pecs of his. She glanced up at Ivy. "Thought you said you were making up rule number two."

"Rule number two," said Ivy promptly, staring across the gap between the rooftops to a heavy patch of shadow. "I get to kill the Batman."

xXxXxX

Bruce throttled down the Tumbler in the alley behind the Gotham Institute of Fine Art. He scanned the area with his infrared night-goggles, just to be sure a certain feline wasn't going to jump him when he exited the vehicle. Finding the area clean of heat trails, he climbed out and promptly shot his grapple-gun to the top of the roof. There was an observation post he'd used before, where the ducts for the museum's climate control systems let out their cold exhaust. It effectively negated his heat print, at least from a range farther away than a few hundred yards, making it an ideal position to watch the other rooftops, as well as the stairs leading up to the entrance of the Institute. With a swirl of his cape, he settled down for what he hoped would be a fruitless vigil. Little did he know that a rooftop away, the two women he hoped not to meet tonight were discussing his fate.

"Repeat rule number two, please?" Catwoman stood slowly, turning to gaze at Poison Ivy.

"I get to kill the Batman," Ivy repeated obligingly, relishing the words.

Catwoman considered the pale redhead; obviously the woman was insane—hello, Arkham inmate…if you weren't crazy when you went in, just getting stuck with the wrong neighbor would make sure you were a few whiskers short when you came out. But she hadn't thought that Poison Ivy's psychopathic activist tendencies would make her want to kill in cold blood. Sure, she'd turned a few people into plants before her commitment to Arkham, but hey, the people were probably very happy as hedges; she was sure it was a very peaceful existence. Selina took a deep breath, wincing at the words that were about to come out of her mouth. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

Poison Ivy gave her an incredulous look. "You're defending him?"

Catwoman shrugged. "He's a nice piece of work, if you go for the slightly insane. Which, incidentally, I do." She gave a feral grin that made Ivy back up half a step. "And anyway, don't you think that's a little hasty?"

"In what sense? Everyone wants the Bat dead."

Catwoman bristled. She didn't quite understand why her hackles were rising at first, but after a moment she realized it was like when one of her cats had a favorite toy and one of the others dropped it out the window. Except it would be intentional. And no-one would be able to retrieve her toy and rinse it off, good as catnip again. "I just mean that I could understand it if, say, he foiled us tonight…and we wanted a second crack at it, sure, coming up with a scheme to take him out would be understandable. But killing him right off the bat? Pardon my pun, but that's no fun at all."

"Oh," said Poison Ivy, "but it will be fun." She unhooked a small pouch from her belt, smiling when Catwoman tensed, ready to spring away. "Unfortunately, my dear feline, there isn't enough for two. But let me assure you, this will certainly be more fun than you've had in all your nine lives."

"Lame catch-line," muttered Catwoman under her breath. Louder, she said, "So what's that?"

"It's a special plant," said Ivy lovingly, rubbing the pouch against her cheek. "A neurotoxin that paralyzes the muscles…but leaves all sensory feeling intact…and then, eventually, it stops the heart. But after some delicious playtime."

Catwoman felt—besides revulsion—an overwhelming urge to knock the pouch from Isley's hand and watch it go sailing down and away…harmless. But Ivy was looking at her in a way that didn't brook argument. She sighed inwardly. So much for being the good guy for once, she thought somewhat ruefully. "All right," she purred, pushing down her conscience with a spark of irritation. Since when had she had a conscience this loud and clamorous? "Fill me in on this brilliant plan."

A few moments later, she had to admit, the plan wasn't brilliant. It was actually very simple, and there were many steps that could go wrong, or backfire…but if it didn't work, she wouldn't be complaining. "All right," she growled.

"I'm so glad you see my viewpoint," Poison Ivy said coolly. She gave a little smile. "It would have been such a pity to kill you."

"I'm sure," replied Catwoman drily. She uncoiled her whip. "Are we going to stand here bantering all night or are we going to do this?"

"By all means," said Isley, securing the pouch at her hip again.

Catwoman took several large steps back from the edge of the building, eyeing the fire escape set into the Institute's side. She took a running start and leapt off the edge, whip cracking as it snaked around one of the support bars. The bar groaned as it took her swinging weight. She added a nice front somersault at the apex of her arc, propelling her onto the roof. The glass triangles that were the rooftop of the atrium glinted to her left and she prowled toward them. She was almost through carving out a large circle of glass with her diamond-tipped claws when _he_ made his grand entrance, cape flying—as usual. She ignored him and continued working.

"No witty quip tonight?" Batman rasped as he approached the slender black-clad woman.

"Hmm," she shrugged, still scratching at the glass. "Work as usual."  
"You're after the Sekhmet carving."

She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes coyly. "Well, aren't you chatty tonight, Batsy Boy."

One dark shoulder came up in a shrug that echoed hers. "Work as usual is boring sometimes."

"You've got that right, handsome," replied Catwoman flirtatiously, hoping that he would banter for just a few more seconds—almost there—

"Where's Ivy?" he asked.

"Oh, so I'm the lesser of two evils now? Stooping to asking me where little Miss Scientist has run off to?" Catwoman pouted. "I thought we had a better relationship than _that_, Batsy." Was that a flicker of annoyance, that twitch of his mouth when she said his pet name? Or…was it amusement?

"So you have no idea where she is." It was a question, but it sounded more like a statement.

Catwoman found herself biting her lip as she sawed at the glass. Come on, Selina, she chided herself mentally. Lie! It's not that big of a deal, you've lied _hundreds, _hell, probably _thousands_ of times before, and a lot of them to the Bat! But somehow, knowing that he would die… "No," she said finally. The glass circle bobbled and she caught it on the edges of her claws neatly, setting it to one side. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a cat statue to steal." She slipped down through the opening, coiled her whip about the sturdy branch of a tree and landed on the silver railing that bordered the wandering atrium path. As expected, the Batman landed with a cape-swirl. She lazily performed a few back walkovers on the narrow railing, pausing in the middle of her third and holding the handstand, long legs bending forward and back in a mid-air split. Finally she righted herself and settled into a comfortable crouch, gloved fingers touching the cool railing. "Isn't this the part where you throw the punches and I try to race you to the statue?" she inquired with heavy sarcasm.

The Batman merely watched her with those gimlet eyes. She shrugged. "Suit yourself." With that she ran lightly down the length of the railing and vaulted off the end, into the main exhibition room, clicking into auto-pilot as she executed the complicated set of handsprings and somersaults choreographed precisely for this security system. Something whizzed past her and hit the security box and the lasers deactivated.

She stopped, balancing on one leg delicately, and saw with amazement that the Batarang had completely obliterated the security system, neatly cutting through all the proper wires. Turning, she placed her hands on her hips. "Honestly, Bats, you take the fun out of everything." Something was off—the Batman was acting strangely out of character. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, but she ignored them and took full advantage of the Bat's magnanimous moment, sprinting toward the carving of Sekhmet. Her feline heart warmed at the sight of it, all gleaming wood and smooth lines, a slim female figure topped with a glorious lioness head, two perfectly matched emeralds glittering beneath the glass—as if the goddess was begging her to release her from this stuffy museum, this humiliating display.

"I know, darling, cats aren't made for cages," Catwoman breathed, unshouldering her pack and bringing out her chunk of aluminum, just to be safe. The replacement went without a hitch, and she was holding the beautiful figure in her arms, cradling it like a child. She knew _he_ was watching her, from the shadows, so she held up the lioness's head to her own and said sweetly, "Look, our eyes even match. How puuuuurrrrrfect." She wrapped Sekhmet—_her_ Sekhmet—in a cloth and slid her into the pack. A rumbling came from the direction of the atrium—she ran past the Bat and he didn't try to stop her, merely following silently.

The air in the atrium was terrifically hot and humid, a drastic change from just moments before, and as Catwoman glanced upward she saw Poison Ivy ensconced in the branches of the huge ginkgo tree that dominated the atrium. "Right on time, Red," she murmured, leaping up onto the railing again despite the fact that the alarm system was down and she knew very well the path was clear of trips. A vine touched her leg and she shooed it away, shuddering at the feel of the writhing plant—she much preferred warm fur rubbing against her skin.

"Don't do this, Ivy," she heard Batman call out. The ginkgo tree was growing, branches pushing out and expanding, like one of those scenes in National Geographic when the frames are sped up to demonstrate the growth rate of a particular plant. Catwoman suppressed another shudder. She looked for a ground exit, not savoring the thought of jumping from branch to branch as the damn trees grew.

"Now, why would I listen to you?" Ivy replied, her voice silken and dangerous. She slid sinuously down a branch, the ginkgo bending with a symphony of creaks to deposit her gently on her feet. "After all, you _are_ the one who put me in Arkham, Batman."

"You need help, Pamela," came the gravelly voice again.

Ivy laughed. She threw back her head and laughed until tears—or sap—or whatever she cried ran down her face.

Just go, Selina, just get out of here before the milk goes sour, Catwoman urged herself, still casting about for a ground exit. Yet for some reason she turned and watched, oddly transfixed by the standoff, Sekhmet pressing gently against her back. The Bat took a step closer to Ivy, and she fought the urge to yell a warning at him. Then, unexpectedly, Ivy's face changed from hard and angry to…almost sad. Her clenched fists softened, and her shoulders slumped.

"Maybe…Maybe you're right," Pamela Isley said softly, almost too quietly even for Catwoman's acute hearing. "Maybe…I should let you take me back to Arkham." The plants slowed their growth. A tendril of drooping blue flowers wound itself up Ivy's leg, as if trying to console her. Batman watched her warily for a moment, then took another step forward. From her vantage point, Catwoman glimpsed the small movement of Ivy's hand as she unhooked the pouch from her belt, and, her hackles raised at such underhanded treachery, she made her decision. She dropped Sekhmet—_sorry, darling_—and sprinted back toward the unmoving pair. Ivy, too, took a step forward, shoulders heaving with fake sobs.

"She's playing _dead_, you idiot!" she yelled at Batman, who had time for one look at her before Ivy raised her closed fist, ready to dose him with the neurotoxin. With a great leap, Catwoman closed the distance between them and tackled her brutally, slamming Ivy's pale shoulders against the cold marble tiles of the atrium path.

"Traitor to your own kind," hissed Ivy, teeth bared—but her eyes were glazed with pain. Catwoman dug her claws into the botanist's shoulders, drawing green blood that oozed stickily, like sap.

"Anyone who kills without cause is worse than a traitor," snarled Catwoman in reply, surprising even herself with her moral-sounding refute. "I won't let you kill him, because he's what keeps freaks like you contained."

Ivy laughed, still pinned beneath the black-clad woman's iron grip. "Freaks like me, Kitty? That's rich. What do you think _you _are, if not a freak? A girl with exhibitionist tendencies who pretends she's a cat? It doesn't get any _kinkier_ than that, darling."

"Call me names all you want, Red," said Catwoman. Her heart was pounding with relief—for once, she'd saved the day. "Your little plan failed." For once, she'd been the hero. And then she heard a cough from behind her, a _swoosh_, like something heavy was falling—

She released Ivy and whirled just in time to catch the Bat as he fell heavily, grunting at his weight. He coughed again, and she felt his muscles jerking against her arms; she settled him on the floor and turned back to Ivy, a growl humming low in her throat. Poison Ivy regarded her with hooded eyes, standing with one hip cocked.

"So what's it going to be, sugar?" the deranged doctor asked sweetly. "Are you going to make sure I get back safe to my cell in Arkham, or are you going to save your precious Batman?"

"You said there was time," gritted Catwoman, recalling Ivy's words on the rooftop.

The pale redhead produced a vial filled with a viscous green liquid. "Only if the right amounts of inhibitor solution are injected at the right times. That's what extends the life of the infected organism." She gave a disdainful look at the prone black-clad figure, struggling to rise to his feet behind Catwoman, and tossed the vial up into the air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, so not quite five reviews, but I'll take them. :) Anyone have any preferences about Selina/Bruce or Catwoman/Batman deals? I'm still on the fence, so let me know...Enjoy!**

**Arwen**

Catwoman growled in frustration but didn't hesitate, diving to catch the glass vial an instant before it hit the floor; and when she looked up, Ivy was gone, the atrium slowly cooling back to its normal temperature. She turned to find Batman on his feet, gripping the railing to keep himself upright. He tried to drop into a fighting stance as she came toward him, and she stopped, something inside her wrenching. Was she really that horrible? "Batman," she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. "I'm going to help you. Ivy has infected you with a plant-based neurotoxin."

Bruce clutched the railing and tried to concentrate through the haze of pain dulling his vision. It felt as though a thousand knives were twisting their way deeper and deeper into his body, weakening his muscles with every passing breath. Through the fading fog, he saw an all-too-familiar silhoette: Catwoman. His brain registered the threat, but his body wouldn't respond. His knees nearly buckled and he hauled on the railing to keep himself on his feet, clenching his teeth in a grimace of agony.

_"I'm going to help you…Ivy has infected you with a plant-based neurotoxin." _

It took a long moment for the words to penetrate his numbed mind. Catwoman? Helping him? But it seemed as though he didn't have a choice, he realized grimly as despite his every effort he slowly slid down to the floor. Concentrating every ounce of his willpower, he reached to his belt and pressed the Tumbler's call button; and next to that button, he activated his emergency GPS beacon and telecom communications. Alarms would be going off at the Batcave…Alfred will be so worried, he thought fuzzily, trying hard to take a deep breath. It felt as though iron bands were wrapping about his chest…maybe if he could get out of the suit. His thoughts wandered disjointedly, and then, sure enough, a voice spoke sharply in his ear. "Master Bruce? Are you all right? Your medical readouts are showing abnormalities…Master Bruce? Answer me!" Alfred's voice was hard with urgency.

"Alfred," he rasped with difficulty, wheezing in a breath. "Poison…Catwoman…help…" That was all he could manage before he slipped into a daze. He felt something tugging at him, trying to move him.

"Blast it all," Catwoman growled, trying to lever Batman up onto her shoulder so she could carry him. She heard him muttering something, supposed there was some type of communications device wired into his cowl. Hopefully someone would register the fact that he was missing…Wait. She was talking about _the Bat_, for goodness' sake. She didn't even know who he _was._ Was there even anyone who would miss him, if he were gone? She pulled at his arm, feeling very small and inefficient. He was _heavy._ Then she heard the roar of powerful engines and grinned. She knew more about cats than cars, but she knew the sound of _that _car anywhere.

"Down," the Bat grated. What was meant to be a powerful pull on her arm was no more than a weak tug, but she obliged and sank into a crouch just as the black vehicle burst through the atrium wall, showering them both with debris and dust. With a little huff of irritation—no-one realized how difficult it was to find a good drycleaner who could keep a secret—she brushed herself off and turned to the Bat. To her alarm, his eyes were glazed, slowly closing, his breathing shallow and rapid. She made a quick decision, the Tumbler rumbling in the background. It wouldn't be long before someone called the police, after the car burst through the museum wall like that—despite the fact that the alarm system was down, a Tumbler-shaped hole in the side of the Gotham Institute of Fine Art would not go unnoticed for long. Hopefully the late—or early, she supposed—hour would delay the emergency response.

"Stay with me, Bats," she said as she quickly examined the rescued vial. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a hypodermic, with a wickedly large-gauge needle gleaming at the tip. She uncapped it with her teeth, running the fingers of her free hand over the Batman's neck, hoping to find the edge of his cowl…there! For an instant there was a blaze of triumph, and the idea of finally unmasking him, learning the identity of the Dark Knight, flitted through her mind. Then he groaned, and she pulled up just the edge of the strange material, enough to expose his neck. His skin was already pale, and if she could have felt his temperature through her gloves she knew he would have been cool and clammy to the touch. She tapped at the side of his neck, found the large, throbbing vein.

"Don't know how much to give you," she murmured, glancing at the green vial, "but knowing Ivy, she'd want a long playtime." And with that, she plunged the needle quickly into his skin, compressing the hypodermic only a little. Drawing out the needle, she pressed her finger to the spot where a fat drop of scarlet blood welled up from the puncture. "So heroes bleed too," she said softly, a cold, odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. After a moment, it seemed that his breathing improved, and a few seconds after that he opened his eyes again, blinking up at her blearily. "Rise and shine, handsome," she said brightly. "We've got a getaway to make."

His penetrating gaze, returned to its former intensity, searched her face. "Why are you helping me?" he asked hoarsely.

She shrugged. "You make Gotham interesting, Batsy."

He frowned and touched two fingers to his neck, wincing a little.

"Sorry," she apologized. "Thought that was the quickest way to bring you back around. Come on." She gripped his arm and helped him up; he was able to stand without much assistance, thankfully—she was quite sure she wouldn't have been able to carry him, even the few yards to the Tumbler.

As they reached the black vehicle, he said, "You can go. I've got it from here."

She looked at him askance, noting the fact that he put a hand on the Tumbler for support. "And what are you going to do if that plant-poison knocks you out again, huh? Probably drive into the bay or something, that's what, and I am _not_ going to dive in after you." Shuddering at the mere thought of so much water in once place, Catwoman walked around to the driver's side of the car. "Now, get in."

Batman stared at her stubbornly across the top of the low vehicle. "Ivy will probably come after me again. You'll be safer on your own." A hint of humor entered his weakening voice. "Besides, who will feed your cats?"

"Cats are amazing creatures," she replied simply. "And don't turn this into a heroic, noble self-sacrifice. You're being an idiot."

Bruce fought the wave of nausea that washed over him. He looked at the masked woman, delving deep into her hedge-green eyes, trying to discern her motives. Did she just want to know his identity, to have a weapon to use against him in their future encounters? Or…he couldn't believe he was thinking it, but maybe, was she just trying to do the right thing? As he thought about it, forcing himself to focus, Catwoman wasn't really a very bad villainess. Sure, she stole things. But everyone took things from others, when you thought about it—attention, affection, respect…Stop trying to rationalize, he chided himself. Just…focus. Breathe. He found it harder and harder to do both, and so he gave up on trying to puzzle through the tangled motives behind Catwoman's decision, and got into the passenger side of the Tumbler.

Catwoman gave a little purr of pleasure as she slid into the driver's seat, flexing her black-gloved fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm not one for cars, Batsy, but even I've got to admit you've got style."

He chose not to respond, instead gathering his thoughts so that he could instruct her on how to drive the Tumbler. "Listen." She looked at him with mute, rapt attention as he pointed out the various buttons and gear-shifts. "The GPS system will automatically route a path back…press this button, then throttle up…" He took a breath, feeling sweat gathering on his brow. The hand he was holding up to point out the mechanisms wavered as it became almost unbearably heavy. "Then…just…follow the directions…"

"Got it," she said. Fingers moving quickly, she powered up the Tumbler without mishap, impressing him. She grinned, hearing the engine purr. "If this car were a cat, it would be a panther."

Bruce groaned, mostly from the fact that he realized he was going to have to endure many, many cat puns and comparisons within the next few minutes.

"All right," Catwoman said, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. "Hold onto your tights, Bats." And with that, she hit the gas and the Tumbler screeched out of the atrium. She bit her lip, feeling the steering wheel vibrate with the power of the engine, but then calmed herself. It's just like controlling a tiger, Selina, and you can do that, she consoled herself as they careened into the back alley, two tires leaving the ground as she spun the wheel in a hairpin turn. Well, almost.

A soft female voice directed her as the Tumbler zoomed out onto the main street of Gotham's downtown arts district: "Turn left at the next stoplight." She obliged. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Then the sound of sirens threaded its way through the traffic, and she tensed, ready to send the car leaping forward, but the police cars whizzed past without pausing, heading straight for the atrium. "I kinda like traveling incognito, Bats," she said conversationally, following the GPS system's next directions. They sped past a surprised group of late-night A-listers heading home after the clubs closed; she smiled, but then looked over at Batman. He had leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. She reached over and tapped him, swerving to avoid a slow taxi. "Come on, Bats, stay with me, now."

He didn't respond; when the Tumbler next rounded a turn, his head lolled limply to one side, and she had to throw out a stiff arm to stop him from capsizing into her lap. The vial was in her belt-pouch, and there was no way she could reach it and still drive this crazy car… "For the love of catnip," she yelped as she made another turn, had to take her arm away and he slid so that his cheek was resting on her thigh. Teeth bared in frustration, she joggled her knee, trying to at least get him to flip over onto his back…she could feel his lips through her skin-tight suit, and her cheeks heated, oddly. She was no stranger to men, in all honesty. Maybe it was just the fact that it was _him_…and he had no idea that he was currently violating her very precious personal space. When he started to slide northward of his original position, she delicately extracted her leg and pushed him back over onto his side of the car with her booted foot, maybe a little more roughly than absolutely necessary. It was a rather impressive acrobatic maneuver, considering the tight space.

"Go faster, you blasted machine," she said, tramping down on the gas and shifting gears, glancing tensely over at the unmoving figure in the passenger's seat. Finally the car directed her to a country road and they were zooming along, trees flashing past in quick succession. "What in the name of Bastet…?" she breathed as she saw that they were hurtling toward a solid rock face. She reached over and shook him roughly. "Batman—_Batman, we're going to crash!"_

He looked up groggily and gave a hoarse little chuckle.

"We're about to die and you're _laughing!"_ she screeched, voice jumping registers. He winced at the sharp tone, reached forward and pressed a button.

"Trust…me," he said, leaning back tiredly.

"Trust you? We're about to crash into a cliff!" she yelped, but kept the Tumbler on its collision course. Sorry, darlings, she apologized mentally to her cats, about to squeeze her eyes shut, bracing herself against the back of the seat. And just before she thought she was going to die—just before all nine lives flashed before her eyes—the rock face _opened_, like a freakish garage door, and the Tumbler leapt through the opening, engines echoing against the walls of the dark tunnel. Selina tried to keep herself from panicking—she couldn't really _see_ where she was going, but she was intrigued: the Batman's secret lair. She was going to see it…if they made it out of the blasted car alive


	4. Chapter 4

**New chapter...it's pretty long, so tell me what you think!**

The tunnel took a sharp turn and she frantically throttled down. To her right, Batman's breathing slid into harsh gaps as he fought for breath. She clenched her jaw and tried to focus on the winding tunnel, when all of a sudden they were in a rough, circular sort of cave and there were lights and alarms going off all over the damned dashboard and she realized belatedly that she didn't know the location of the braking mechanism. "How do I stop this—_Shit!" _She threw herself at the wheel maniacally as the car bucked, careening into the wall of the cave with a screech of rock upon metal. With a grunt, Batman lurched forward and hit a button. Selina heard the engine cut, but it wasn't fast enough to prevent them from smashing into the far wall of the cave, throwing her forward against the wheel with such force that she almost blacked out.

She blinked dazedly, feeling oddly frozen. It was eerily silent now in the car—no humming engine, no whirring tires, no cars flashing past. _Come on, Selina, pull yourself together. Finish what you started._ It took much more effort than she had anticipated to scrape herself off the steering wheel and turn her head. Her chest ached and she coughed a little. "Batman?"

The dim interior of the Tumbler provided little light, and, squinting, Catwoman reached over to tug on the Dark Knight's limp arm. After a moment of insistent shaking, she realized it was no use and set about trying to extract herself from the heavy-duty seatbelt that had no doubt saved her from flying through the windshield. Or bulletproof glass. Or whatever it was.

A tapping came on the driver's side door, along with a muffled voice. She hastened her attempts at undoing her seatbelt—no doubt she would be an unwelcome guest in the top-secret lair of the Batman and his minions. With a little growl of frustration she opted to cut through the seatbelt with her claws, performing the same maneuver for the worryingly limp Batman. The muffled voice came again, the words louder.

"Can you hear me, Master Bruce? Master Bruce!"

She could hear the panic in the man's voice, and knew that there was probably some high-tech tracking device implanted in the Batman's suit somewhere, something that monitored his vitals and was probably going absolutely haywire at the moment. There was a moment of silence—she pressed her ear against the door, debating on whether to call out or try to lever the door open herself. She glanced over at the Batman, wondering whether she should give him another dose of the green liquid.

Her musings were cut short as the car shuddered beneath a hard blow. The man had obviously taken matters into his own hands—and before Catwoman had time to shift her weight, the door gave way, spilling her out of the car with a hiss of surprise. A man stood over her with a crowbar, and for a moment he looked surprised. She used that moment to regain her feet and shake off the ringing in her ears. Her chest ached from impacting the steering wheel. The guy was older, maybe sixties, late fifties, with an immaculately tailored suit that fairly screamed _Butler!_ She narrowed her eyes.

"You—dispicable creature!" the man said, swinging the bar at her. She dodged and felt it whiz by her face. For an old guy, the butler was fast. A hint of anger warmed her spine—for once, she had played hero. She dodged another swing. For once, she had done something right. A handspring avoided a crowbar uppercut. And what did she get in return? A game of tag with a crowbar. No, thanks.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you that calling someone names is rude?" she said sweetly, rolling to avoid another wild swing. Another sarcastic bit of banter at the ready, she circled back toward the Tumbler, wanting something solid at her back. As she prepared to dodge the next blow, eyes glinting with that peculiar excitement that only comes with action, she heard a faint groan from the interior of the car, and just like that, her conscience started thrashing. Why did my conscience choose tonight to make an appearance? she wondered in irritation; but she caught the butler's wrist and twisted it just a little, enough to make him drop the crowbar. She caught his other wrist as he resorted to throwing punches.

"Now I'm going to tell you something and you're going to listen," she said softly, almost calmly. "The Batman is in the car. Poison Ivy dosed him with lethal neurotoxic spores."

The butler's eyes widened and he went visibly pale, craning over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the Tumbler's interior.

"I'm not the bad guy right now, all right?" She shook his wrist a little to make him pay attention to her. Some part of her was jealous, that Batman had someone who would notice if he went missing, would care if he was hurt. She had her cats, yes, and they were precious darlings, but…a cat couldn't look absolutely stricken and concerned.

The butler tried to break away from her and she let him go. He took a moment to compose himself, brushing off his jacket as he circled the Tumbler. She followed closely behind, fishing for the vial of inhibitor in her belt.

Alfred tore open the passenger side door of the Tumbler, his knees going weak at the sight of Master Bruce—or rather, Batman, at the moment. He was slumped forward, head almost touching his knees, arms hanging limp.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred said sharply, images of the small boy he had sworn to himself to protect flashing through his mind. While he hadn't entirely approved of the Batman at the beginning, he'd warmed up to the idea…but in the back of his mind he had always dreaded the night that Batman would meet his match. It seemed like only a matter of time, with all the criminals in Gotham gunning for him. Alfred pressed two fingers to the Batman's neck, a wave of relief washing over him as he found the pulse—faint and thready, but there; and then he noticed that the edge of the cowl was pulled up and skewed…as if someone had pulled it off. He turned to the woman clad in the tight, shiny black suit. He thought she was supposed to be a cat. Ah, Catwoman, yes, he remembered Master Bruce mentioning that one.

"Don't look at me like that," the villainess said indignantly. "I didn't take the mask off. I swear." She glanced around the Batcave. "Although I suppose now I'm here, there's no way of preventing me from knowing his real identity." She sounded a little smug and smiled at him without showing her teeth.

"Oh, there are many methods of preventing you, Miss," Alfred said blithely, straightening. He saw that Batman's seatbelt lay in shreds across his broad chest. "Now, we need to get him to the medical room."

"Just like that? I haven't even introduced myself."

"From the Spandex and cat-ears, I would guess you are Catwoman, Miss," the butler answered without a hitch as he ran his hands over the black-clad form of the Batman, checking for broken bones and obvious injuries that would pose a threat should the man be moved.

"Well, you're brighter than the average butler," said Catwoman, obviously pleased. She stepped forward. "And you are…?"

"Alfred Pennyworth," he said, finishing his pat-down. "I would shake your hand, Miss, but mine are occupied at the moment."

"Don't sweat it, Alf," replied Catwoman. She came up behind him. "How's he doing?"

"Until we get him to the medical room, we won't know the extent of his injuries, other than the poisoning," he replied tightly. Had he heard real concern in the woman's voice, or was it just self-interest, a morbid curiosity—could the Dark Knight really die? Was he really a person, same as everyone else in Gotham?

"The medical room?" Selina was thinking fast and hard. Honestly, who had that kind of money in Gotham? Was someone supplying the Caped Crusader…or was he simply rich? _Master Bruce. _"Bruce Wayne," she whispered, half in awe. She'd met the man at some social events before, mostly charity balls that cost a thousand dollars a plate, where she'd been representing one employer or another…She remembered the man's easy but somewhat arrogant smile, and the way his blue eyes flashed in pride when socialites clung to him too long or too tightly to be strictly polite. But…when she thought back on it, maybe his eyes had been flashing in annoyance, and maybe his smile was uneasy amidst the glitter and glitz of Gotham's elite.

"I'll expect you to keep that to yourself for the moment, Miss," Alfred said sharply, bringing her back to the present. "If you would be so kind as to help me, it might expedite the process." He gave a dry smile. "I know my muscles betray me, but I doubt I am strong enough to single-handedly carry the Batman."

Catwoman gave him a real smile that faded as she stepped forward and saw the pallor of the Batman—Bruce Wayne—beneath his cowl. With Alfred under one shoulder and her under the other, they managed to get him upright and half-carried, half-dragged the semi-conscious Batman from the Tumbler. He seemed to come around a little bit when they passed by the cave's waterfall, mist hitting his exposed skin.

"Alfred?" came the hoarse whisper as he lifted his head just a little, the rest of his body still limp. God, he couldn't feel anything. Was he dead? Was he paralyzed? His mind whirled in dizzying circles. How had he gotten back to the cave? And why in the world weren't his legs working?

"Master Bruce." Alfred's voice sounded in his ear like it had just been blasted from a rock concert speaker. He cringed away from the noise, a hoarse groan tearing itself from his throat. "Master Bruce," the voice came again, low and almost a whisper. The sound still vibrated through his now-screaming body, eliciting ripples of white-hot pain down his torso and into his legs. He jerked.

"Get him to hold still!" Catwoman hissed at Alfred as the Batman jerked away from the sound of the butler's voice, almost jolting out of her grasp. She slipped a little on the slick rock and windmilled her free arm to regain her balance, fighting the urge to lower her center of gravity by dropping into a predatory crouch.

"Let's walk faster," suggested the butler. The medical room was still about fifty yards away, and by the time they had gotten to the stainless-steel doors, it was all they could do to keep ahold of Batman. He twitched at every sound, every drip of water and every scrape of their feet on the stone floor of the cave.

"Can you hold him?" asked Alfred. Selina made a face, but braced herself more firmly underneath the Batman's arm, getting a good hold on one of his wrists and attempting to encircle his waist with her other arm. That didn't work, so she ended up in a kind of bear-hug, her front pressed against his, and her head nestled on his shoulder, arms straining around his broad form. God, she could feel his muscles through the suit, and his warm breath on her ear…Snap out of it, Selina, she reprimanded herself sharply. The butler extracted himself from beneath the Batman's other shoulder, leaving Catwoman to bear the brunt of his weight, and hurredly walked over to a panel, punching in a series of numbers that caused the doors to slide open with a metallic hiss.

"Got it yet?" Catwoman asked, her voice muffled and strained. Her legs began to shake from taking so much weight. His heart was beating too fast. God, his heart was pounding against her chest and she could feel it and it scared her. His breath slowed in her ear. "Alf, you better hurry up!" she yelped as she felt him slipping—she had spoken right in his ear and he didn't show any recognition. She took three panicked breaths before she felt his next exhalation brush her ear. And his pounding heart was slowing…slowing…if she could only get to the vial—should she put him down, reach for the vial and risk them not being able to get him up again? "Shit," she muttered, her own heart pounding now with tense terror. She counted to three between each beat of his heart. What the hell was that butler doing? "Alfred!" she called sharply, and was rewarded by the sound of wheels and metallic clattering. A gurney, she guessed.

She stiffened as Alfred positioned the padded white gurney to their right. "Got it?" she asked, and when the older man gripped the sides of the gurney and nodded, she gathered herself, crouched down and pushed up hard, rolling them both onto the gurney. Alfred lost his grip and for a moment she thought they were going to go careening wildly down into the pool at the far end of the cave, but the butler regained his hold at about the same time she realized that she was straddling the Batman. But she refused to let it get to her—purely in the interest of his health, she told herself, he needed someone within close proximity to monitor his breathing and pulse. She pulled his arms onto the gurney—even his arms were heavy. "Take it away, Alf," she said. The butler gave her a look as he pushed them forward into the medical room. She made use of the time to get the green vial out, uncapping it and flicking the glass cylinder to make sure there were no bubbles. He was trembling, she could feel the small tremors rippling through his muscles. Alfred hit something with his heel and locked the gurney into place just as the Batman started shaking more violently. Catwoman tried to pin him down with her body. His shoulder hit her jaw and she hissed in pain.

"The vial, Alfred!" She tried to motion with her head at the green vial held carefully in her right hand—she was using her forearm to hold down the Batman's wrist, and she was afraid that if she let go she would be sent flying. The butler lunged forward and took the vial from her hand, squinting at the needle.

"Only a little bit," she gritted out, concentrating on holding him down as his spasms became more and more violent. "It's—an inhibitor—" She caught a hook to the jaw and fell back, off the gurney, with a surprised sound. Not a squeal. She was too dignified to squeal. Scrambling to her feet, she watched as Alfred approached the gurney with determination and managed to inject the thrashing man—or she supposed he did, she couldn't exactly see from her vantage point. But it seemed to work…the Batman—Bruce Wayne, she reminded herself again—calmed after a moment, body going limp. She sighed, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Alfred stepped back, his face schooled against emotion.

"It took a little longer to work that time," Catwoman commented softly, watching as Alfred stepped forward and hesitated, glancing in her direction.

"May I ask you to leave the room for a moment, Miss?" he asked delicately.

Catwoman frowned at him. "I don't read minds."

"In spite of the help you have given him, I expect that the Batman would appreciate the preservation of his…modesty," Alfred replied, looking down at the suit.

"Bruce Wayne, playboy prince of Gotham City, _modest_?" She gave a little chuckle. "That's rich, Alfie, that's rich. But, just because you asked nicely." Pausing at the door, her green eyes turned uncharacteristically pensive. "Doesn't he need a hospital?"

"We've dealt with injuries before, Miss," said Alfred, doing his best to be stoic as he stood by the side of his unconscious charge.

"Do you have someone to call?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "Yes. And I will call him, as soon as I…assess the situation."

Selina nodded, still feeling that uneasy twist in her stomach. What was getting into her? Honestly, the empathy thing was getting old. She didn't like feeling other people's pain. It made being a villainess very difficult.

"Don't worry, Miss," said Alfred as she turned away. "Master Bruce is a fighter."

"He'd better be," Selina said mostly to herself. "If Ivy finds out he's still alive, he'd better be ready for the brawl of his life."


	5. Chapter 5

**So, seeing The Dark Knight prompted my muse...it was much fun. Please tell me what you think about this chapter...and about what should happen next! As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!**

**Arwen**

Alfred gave her a measured glance before turning away, picking up a sleek black phone from its niche in the wall of the medical room. He pressed a single button and then held the phone up to his ear. "Hello, Lucius," Selina heard him say into the receiver. To her surprise, he chuckled, just slightly. "I know, our Master Bruce seems to get into more trouble than he can handle quite often these days. But we would greatly appreciate it if you came over nonetheless." His voice turned grave. "Yes, I'm afraid it's bad this time."

"How bad?" Selina heard the echo of a deep baritone voice from the receiver with her fine-tuned ears.

"Bad enough that he had to have help from…someone…just to get back to the Cave," replied Alfred. "Thank you, Lucius." He replaced the phone with an air of unruffled calm, remarkable, Selina thought, for a man whose employer had just barely escaped death and wasn't out of danger yet. Alfred turned to face her again. "Now, Miss, there is a tray of Waldorf salad on the table by the mainframe computer, if you would like to help yourself. But please do not touch anything," he added seriously in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Are you sure you don't need any help? That suit looks difficult to get off," Catwoman said thoughtfully. She half-smiled at the butler, but her heart wasn't in the jest and it lacked her usual bite. "Just kidding, Alfie. I'll go see if your Waldorf salad is up to par. You don't happen to have any milk around, do you?"

"Unfortunately Master Bruce does not condone the storage of dairy products in the Batcave," replied Alfred, opening one of the stainless steel cabinets and beginning to set supplies on the countertop. Catwoman noted that every few seconds his gaze strayed to the supine form of the Batman laid out on the gurney. His mask was still on…but she could see that underneath that, he looked so…pale. Fragile, almost, if one could be labeled fragile while wearing the attire of the most feared crime-fighter Gotham had ever known.

"Well," she said, "give a yowl if you need me." Again reminded of the fact that no-one but her cats would miss her, she made a quiet exit, the doors of the medical room hissing shut behind her. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.

True to Alfred's word, there was a silver tray bearing a bowl of Waldorf salad, a dinner roll, and a dish of steamed vegetables sitting on the small round table by the Batcave's mainframe computer. Selina realized that underneath the aches from their abrupt stop in the Tumbler, her stomach was growling voraciously after the long night's work. She glanced at her watch casually: it was nearly four o'clock in the morning, and she'd left her apartment a little after midnight. It felt odd, to sit down and eat a meal while still sporting her Spandex suit…she considered taking off the mask, but then quickly dismissed the idea. Despite the fact that the Batman was currently incapacitated, she still wanted the upper hand when Mr. Bruce Wayne, playboy of Gotham City, returned to the land of the living to discover that his grand secret was crushed. Not that she'd tell anyone; oh, no, it gave her a delicious thrill to realize that she was one of very, very few people who knew the Batman's identity, his precious little game of dress-up. She leaned back in the chair and stretched luxuriously, arching her body to form a long arc between her back and her long black-clad legs. Chewing another bite of Waldorf salad thoughtfully—it wasn't bad, she had to admit, even though she didn't normally go for ritzy recipes—she considered her options. She could simply vanish, disappear from the Batcave without another word or a glance backward. The potential for trouble cropping up from prolonging this strange situation seemed pretty high. The only problem with that plan was that she had absolutely no idea how to get out of the dank Batcave, and her quickest avenue of escape, the Tumbler, was currently out of commission, still steaming against the far wall of the Cave.

She sighed and nibbled at her lip in frustration, picking at the cool vegetables with a silver fork. Why exactly had she saved the Batman's life again? Well…because he was a delicious toy, she told herself, and…she had felt bad, she had felt wrong helping Poison Ivy trick the Batman into signing his own death warrant. Batman had genuinely wanted to help Poison Ivy and she supposed it just rubbed her fur the wrong way that Ivy took advantage of the Bat's humanity. Then again, the Bat's tendency to offer help in all the wrong places kind of rubbed her fur the wrong way, too, but the fact that he tried so damn hard at everything smoothed it all out. She remembered his earnest words, his offer of succor to one of his mortal enemies, and shook her head. Obviously Bats had suffered a few too many hard blows to the cranium and a few wires were knocked out of place. She half-smiled, her crimson lips curling at the realization that she herself had planted quite a few of those blows—most of them impeccable, high-flying kicks that would put a martial arts master to shame, if she did say so herself.

But despite the fond memories, there was still the troubling fact that she had suffered from guilt, from pangs of conscience. These were all new experiences for Catwoman—not for Selina Kyle, maybe, but certainly for Gotham's friskiest feline. Usually, when the Spandex went on, the gloves came off. But not tonight. What did it mean? she wondered, stabbing a perfectly cooked green bean vengefully on the prongs of her carefully polished silver fork. Was she going soft? She growled at the thought. Was she going crazy…was her fascination with the Batman slipping into obsession, a sick fixation? Her lips curled back from her teeth in frustration. She threw down the fork and drew her knees up to her chest, encircling her legs with her arms. "I hate self-examination," she snarled to herself. "It's all the Bats' fault," she continued softly. That line of thought made sense. Yes, it was his fault, like it was always his fault. Who was she kidding, he existed to throw wrenches in her perfect plans. Granted, she enjoyed those wrenches sometimes…

"Stop it!" she growled, standing. "Stop trying to rationalize and just deal with it." And with a small nod, she realized that the argument was over. At least for now.

After carefully replacing the silverware on the tray—her feline insticts tended to perfectionism—she spun herself around in the chair for a few minutes until she began feeling nauseous. Waldorf salad didn't sit well with increased inertia. She peeked over her shoulder at the medical room. Then she perked up—unbeknownst to her, while she had been spearing steamed vegetables and arguing with her pesky internal self, another player had arrived on the scene. She spun the chair around to observe, pressing her lips together, missing. He was a fairly tall man, oak-hued skin and a head of tightly curled, abundant grey hair that tended to white at the temples. Even from such a distance, his eyes were what struck her—they were deep, dark, so full of wisdom that she felt like a child just from a glimpse. He was talking to Alfred thoughtfully, taking the Batman's pulse, looking at the many strange machines populating the medical room, crowded around the gurney just as throngs of admiring women had once pushed in on Bruce Wayne at galas and glamorous charity benefits. Her curiosity tickled, she rose fluidly from her chair and caught the eye of the stranger. He paused just for a second, eyes flickering almost imperceptibly, then bent over his patient again.

Catwoman crossed the Batcave predatorily, green eyes slicing at the glass of the medical room. She expected Alfred, or the new man, to draw the grey curtain across the front of the room. But Alfred looked up, his eyes deeply worried, caught her movement—and then he went back to rubbing the bridge of his nose as he waited by his charge's side, waiting for Lucius to tell him to do something…anything.

The doors slid open with a quiet hiss. Catwoman felt her breath catch in her throat. Her heart skipped a beat and then increased in speed, pounding into her temples. She hadn't expected Alfred to let down his guard, allow her near the man he wanted to protect so badly from criminals. She straightened her shoulders. From people like her. The one thing she had expected was Batman to be lying on the gurney, his black suit stark contrast against the crisp white sheets. But it wasn't Batman.

It was Bruce Wayne.

She took a step forward, acutely aware of the mask across her face, shielding her from their glances. He was handsome, she realized in a detached sort of way…but she had always known that, from the strong shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips beneath the mask, the flash of his eyes out of the inscrutable depths of his cowl. Yet now he looked…weak. Like a kitten. Well, perhaps not like a kitten, since, although she adored her cats, they didn't quite produce this physical of a response in her. She reached forward and touched his hair with one gloved finger, delicately, ready to spring back at a single sharp word or a glare from either one of the older men in the room. Alfred watched her expressionlessly. The man beside him peered into the microscope on the countertop and carefully marked down a few notes.

"Are you studying the inhibitor solution?" she asked, curiosity peaked.

"Yes." The response was slow, measured, almost drawled in a deep voice. The man turned around and raised one graying eyebrow. "I suppose you're Catwoman."

With half a smile, she nodded.

"Mind telling us what happened? This is a pretty complex jumble I've got under the microscope, and I'm sorry to say I haven't yet made heads or tails of it." The words were still enunciated with a proper tone, in that deep, rich voice, but there was a hint of accusation.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Lucius."

She looked down at Bruce Wayne. Batman. "Well, the condensed version is…Poison Ivy wanted to kill the Batman."

"That much we surmised, miss," Alfred said dryly.

She gave him a look. "Calm down, Alfie, I'm not finished yet. Let a girl breathe." After a pause to gather her thoughts, she continued. "Ivy said she had a plant-based neurotoxin that would kill the Batman, and that we could have…time alone with him…if her plan went well." She grimaced. "I usually don't say this, but Red was creeping me out. Kind of off the deep end, even for an Arkham inmate. I mean, Batsy keeps Gotham fun."

Neither Alfred nor Lucius seemed to think that her assessment of Poison Ivy or the Batman was amusing in the least. They kept her pinned with their gazes. Who knew two old men could look so intimidating? She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I tried to stop her, but…" She shrugged.

"But?" Alfred prompted.

"I was too late," she replied, almost defensively. "I tried, okay? I tried for once to be a good guy and it didn't really work out. Not my area of expertise, if you know what I mean."

The room was silent for a moment.

"So, what were his first symptoms?" Lucius asked, picking up his notepad from by the microscope.

"He coughed. And then he fell. By the way, he's really heavy in that suit."

That almost got a smile out of Alfred. Lucius was definitely the harder nut to crack, she was sure. But that was alright. She could dig in her claws.

"He almost lost it right there…I gave him some of the green stuff, right in the neck, to bring him back around."

Lucius nodded. "That was good. The carotid artery is effective, if not necessarily the most comfortable of injection sites."

Catwoman shrugged. "I had to go with what I thought would work."

"And it did," said Alfred, almost warmly, taking her aback. The butler gazed down at the younger man on the gurney for a moment, his stern expression softening into one of affection and worry. He looked up at her again. "We had to use about a quarter of the remaining inhibitor solution to stop the seizures," he said quietly.

Selina closed her eyes, trying to stem the emotions beginning to whirl around her head. She didn't understand them. "It would be just like Red to create something that only she knew how to use, that only she would know how to stop." There was a tube coming out of Bruce Wayne's hand, an I.V. bag hanging on a stainless steel stand by the gurney. "How bad is it, really?"

The sound of the machines by the bed whirring away as they recorded Bruce Wayne's life filled the silence. Then Alfred nodded once to Lucius.

"If we can't find the cure for this," said Lucius slowly, "if we can't unravel what this thing is, he's going to die."

"How long?" Her lips felt numb, like she had just kissed ice.

"Twenty-four hours. Maybe two days at the most, but that's if we can stretch the inhibitor solution. That's just to keep him alive." Lucius shook his head slightly. "I don't know whether he'll wake up again."

It was a death sentence. His words settled into the pit of her stomach and she had to do something, right then and there. She couldn't throw anything, couldn't demolish something very old and very fragile and very valuable…so she destroyed the most important thing she had left. It felt small and insignificant, like flowers at a funeral, like sending a Christmas card to an old lonely aunt. But it felt right. She took off her gloves fiercely, with a determined snap, and then slid her fingers under the edge of her mask. In one movement it was off, a husk, falling to the floor from her bare fingers. She stared fiercely at Alfred and Lucius. "My name is Selina," she said, "and I won't let Bruce die."


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, not really much to say...let me know your thoughts as to how this should progress...I love hearing possibilities, and I haven't quite made up my mind yet as to where this is going! Thanks for reading and enjoy!**

**Arwen**

Alfred gazed at the woman across the room. She was not conventionally beautiful, but she was striking, with a bone structure that caught the light in interesting ways, almost like a European runway model save for the fact that she was too curvy to fit into most couture pieces. Her eyes were very green, almost like emeralds save for the sardonic flash in them, and her scarlet-rimmed smile, no doubt about it, was very…feline. Her golden hair was pulled back somehow, he couldn't really see it. Then she turned her head, just a little, and he saw that she had braided her tresses and then pinned the excess braid against the nape of her neck, tucking it back in on itself to allow for her mask.

Her mask. Alfred allowed his eyes to stray to it, just for a moment, there on the floor like a dead rat. Or cat. Her action was easy to understand psychologically, but it didn't really fit with the criminal dossier that Master Bruce had compiled on Catwoman. At his side, Lucius turned back to the microscope with the smallest of sighs, eschewing the drama unfolding before him. Perhaps he didn't know the enormity of Catwoman's—Selina's—action. Perhaps he didn't care. Alfred decided it was likely the latter.

It was easy now to allow the surging protective instincts within him to rise to the surface, now that he had a face to go with a real name, not some psychopathic criminal pseudonym. He felt his face settle into its oft-worn mask of indifference touched with a cold aloofness. "So, Miss Selina, after your grand finale, what exactly do you plan on doing to save Master Bruce's life?"

Selina blinked at the butler. Was he…angry? Didn't he realize what she had just sacrificed for the man he obviously cared very deeply about, didn't he realize what she had just lain on the altar of the mighty Bruce Wayne, playboy of Gotham? She felt her hackles rise. "Well," she began, but he didn't give her a chance to finish. He wasn't looking for an answer, not really.

"Because if you do anything more to jeopardize Master Bruce, if you cause him to so much as break a nail—"Alfred walked around the edge of the bed, eyes sharp as daggers, voice deadly smooth and calm—" I will personally hunt you down and make sure that all your nine lives are ended. Is that clear?"

Selina raised her eyebrows at the butler, who had managed to close the distance between them to mere inches. "Crystal."

"Good," said Alfred. He held her gaze for a moment longer to ensure that his message had been taken seriously. She stared back unblinkingly, not ruffled but obviously not making light of his words. He nodded briskly in satisfaction, tugged once at the bottom of his jacked to straighten out invisible wrinkles, and turned heel, striding smartly back to his post on the left side of the bed. Selina shook her head a little in wonder.

"You've got to tell me where you hired him so I can get one too," she said in a low voice to Bruce Wayne.

"Oh, I'm not for sale, Miss," Alfred replied. "But I am known to be rather fond of a good pinot noir."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. It was odd, the way this man worked, alternately threatening and gently teasing her—strangely familiar, in a way. "You remind me of someone. Wait—I've got it! Alfie, you definitely remind me of my grandfather."

Alfred made a sound of disgust, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, dear, please." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, brows arched as he continued, dry humor coloring his cultured voice. "I can assure you, I'm much older than that."

Lucius cleared his throat pointedly. Selina and Alfred immediately paid attention, the banter effectively ended. "It looks as though this inhibitor solution isn't able to be duplicated."

"What?" Alfred said sharply.

"It's a living organism. I can see whether I can culture it, but that's out of my area of expertise," replied Lucius darkly.

"Do you know how it works, at least?" Selina asked hopefully, glancing at Bruce Wayne. It would be a horrible way to die, never to wake up, to slip into it unknowingly.

"Well," said Lucius slowly, "from blood samples, I can see that the poison is a living organism as well."

"Of course it would be," muttered Selina. "It's Poison Ivy. She can't help herself."

"May I finish?" Lucius looked at her with raised eyebrows, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully as if she would misunderstand. "As I was saying, it is a living organism that attaches to red blood cells. Somehow—I can't see the exact mechanics of it on this microscope—the organism is a parasite. A leech of some kind."

"What does it do?" Selina put her hand over her mouth after the words popped out.

"From the symptoms, I'd say that the organism is using the oxygen on the red blood cell. The dizziness, loss of consciousness, even the seizures could point to a serious deficiency in the brain." Lucius held up a hand to stem their questions. "But that's the best case scenario."

"What's the worst case scenario?" Alfred asked, the lines in his face deepening at every word.

"Worst case…the parasite is just using the blood as a sort of taxi system to get the the major nerves."

"The major nerves?"

"The brain," Selina said grimly with a glance at Bruce Wayne. Lucius nodded.

"How long until we know for sure?"

"I'll have to take these back to the lab to analyze further. I need more equipment than you have here."

"Isn't this state of the art?" Selina heard herself ask almost desperately. "Wouldn't Bruce Wayne make sure he had every piece of the latest technology?"

After a moment, Alfred answered her. "Master Wayne never allowed himself to dwell on his mortality…on the Batman's mortality. He allowed himself to view the Batman as other people viewed him: indestructible, incorruptible." He paused. "God love him, Master Wayne prepares very little for worst case scenarios...and now he finds himself in one."

"He's got to have had close calls before," insisted Selina. There was a slight rattling in the backround as Lucius packed his samples for the lab in a cushioned case.

"Most of his adversaries prefer guns and knives," said Alfred. There seemed an especially acidic undercurrent to his voice as he answered her. "A man, however strong, cannot fight what he cannot see. Poison Ivy's plan was brilliant."

She hadn't mistaken it—there was a spark of deep anger and intense dislike smoldering in the depths of Alfred's smooth, steady visage as he gazed at her. To her surprise, she felt a blush color her face, heating her cheeks, reddening her skin all the way out to the tips of her ears. What did he expect her to say? She felt like she was on the edge of a diving board, anticipating the empty plummet before hitting the water. The thought of water elicited a shiver. Then she took a deep breath. "Look. Alfred." It was her turn to be firm. "I'm sorry I didn't act in time. I'm sorry I let Poison Ivy get as far as she did. But honestly, try to give me some credit." There was anger rimming her words now. "I brought him back here to you. I tried to save him and I'm not going to stop trying. I don't leave things half-done."

Alfred looked at her stonily. He turned deliberately to talk to Lucius, leaving Selina fuming. She was almost trembling with anger. Who would have known that a butler was so adroit at getting under her skin, so adept at sending her into the throes of defensive anger? Some small part of her mind whispered nastily that he was right after all, she was no hero, not a good guy. Batman was the only good guy in Gotham, and he was going to die. "No," she said, very quietly, just to herself. She let herself gaze at Bruce Wayne as she thought, hard, feeling her mind straining for an answer that seemed just out of her reach. Her lips tightened and her forehead furrowed.

"Are you all right?" Lucius asked her as he passed by on his way out of the medical room, pausing at her elbow.

"Oh, you know, just mentally constipated," she said brightly with a blinding smile. "Putting together my grand scheme takes some effort."

"Good luck," said Lucius doubtfully. "Alfred, I'll be in touch."

Alfred nodded and shook hands with Lucius, watching the other man leave with world-weary eyes. She watched a hint of the ramrod-straight demeanor drain from him as his shoulders slumped slightly.

"Alfred," she said quietly, "did you receive an invite to the gala for the opening of the Marcellus exhibit?"

"Of course Mr. Wayne received an invite. He's a substantial sponsor of the arts in Gotham."

"Because…I think I have a plan. But we have to wake him up."

Alfred blinked. "Miss, may I remind you that Mr. Fox cannot duplicate the inhibitor solution, and to use it all on a gamble is highly irresponsible, a risk I would not be willing to take on his behalf."

"You wouldn't be willing to take it, but would he?" Selina asked, looking down at Bruce Wayne's pale face.

"Sometimes Master Bruce is incapable of recognizing what is best for him," said Alfred with a decidedly brittle edge to his voice. He looked at Selina with his inscrutable grey eyes. "And that's where I come in."

Selina sighed. "Alfred, just listen. Poison Ivy will definitely be at that gala, as Dr. Pamela Isley or otherwise. It's the perfect opportunity for us to—"

"Miss, that is where you are mistaken." More brittleness, more anger. "There is no us. No we. There is only Master Wayne, and he is fighting for his life right now. I am here to make sure he wins."

Selina growled in frustration and snatched her mask up from the floor of the medical room. She held it at shoulder height. "Do you want Selina or Catwoman here, Alfred? Do you want my help or not?"

"Your help has already done Master Wayne enough damage," Alfred replied frostily. He checked the monitors, making sure the sensors were firmly attached to his patient's chest.

Selina looked at the mask, and pulled it on. She felt whole again. "Fine, Alfred. You wait here in the Cave and do nothing. Watch him die." Her green eyes flared like a burning hedge. "I'm going to go do something about this." Checking to make sure that she had her whip, ignoring the headache blossoming behind her ears, she turned.

"And what, pray tell, are you going to do, Miss?" Alfred sounded like the voice of reason, so utterly sure of himself. She wished for a brief moment that she ever felt that confident in herself.

"I'm going to find Ivy," she growled, "and end her little game."

Alfred and Catwoman stared at each other for a long moment. Then Alfred nodded curtly. "Good luck."

"I won't be long." She was almost to the door when he called out.

"I believe you lost an earring, miss."

Selina turned, paused for a moment. "I don't…wear…" Then she was striding quickly back to Alfred, snatching the tiny object from his palm. It must have fallen from her mask, when she pulled it off: a tiny green leaf, attached to a pin…Without realizing it, she was cursing and spitting like a cat doused with water. "It's a tracking device," she hissed.

"Destroy it!" urged Alfred immediately.

"No." She shook her head and closed her fist on the tracker. "Time to play a little of Ivy's game." Out of her belt she took a small black device. It looked like a miniature cell phone, about the size of her little finger. She unclipped the earpiece and plugged it into her left ear, handing the transmitter to Alfred. "You didn't think Batman was the only one with some technical toys, did you?" she grinned.

"Of course not, Miss," drawled Alfred dryly.

"Well, batten down the hatches. Put on your alarm systems. This place does have alarm systems, right?" Alfred nodded. "Let me know if she tries to get at him here. Since the car's…out of commission, any other rides around here?"

Five minutes later, a sleek black motorcycle rocketed down the tree-lined lane in front of Wayne Manor. Snug in a black helmet and jacket, Selina revved the throttle and pressed herself lower against the bike, racing toward the black silhouettes of Gotham City.


End file.
